


Serious as a Heart Attack

by smallvictory



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Homophobia, M/M, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 19:28:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17710184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallvictory/pseuds/smallvictory
Summary: mike gets some bad news about his father, and asks the yogi for a ride.





	Serious as a Heart Attack

Mike shook out a large paper bag, branded MACSMEN on its side, and carefully placed in a freshly purchased set of locking wrist cuffs, a flogger suitable for beginners, and one of Mick’s handmade leather blindfolds. “Okay, my guy, you’re all set,” he said cheerfully as he handed the goods over the counter to the man who had just bought them.

“Thanks a lot for your help, Mike.” The customer was a semi-regular; one of the familiar faces that stopped by the store every few months or so. Mike liked to know at least a little bit about everyone who shopped with him, and he knew that this particular man was about to try bondage with his partner for the first time. Normally he came in to buy the usual supply of toys and lube, but today he had enlisted Mike’s help in a more adventurous purchase, and Mike had been more than happy to spend an hour picking out exactly the right gear for him.

“Hey, tell us how it goes next time we see you!” he called just before the man was out the door.

“I’ll keep you posted,” he answered back, smiling from ear to ear, and then the door chime dinged behind him and he was gone. Mike sighed contentedly and leaned his back against the counter, stretching all the way back until he was flat on top of it and his joints made a satisfying pop, and hummed along with the Madonna tape that Mick had left in the stereo behind the register. Other than that man it had been a pretty uninteresting day at the store. He figured people weren’t out looking for dildoes on a rainy Monday.

If Mick were here, he would have suggested they order pizza and make out between customers, but, unfortunately, Mick was away on a two-day trip for business reasons. Mike always loved accompanying him on those trips, because nothing broke up the monotony of meeting with potential business partners like a raw fuck on an upscale hotel mattress, but with a new puppy at home, Mike had opted to stay in Pristina and hold down the fort.

He fiddled with his wedding ring, spinning it around while he thought about Mick. He could always send him a picture of his dick to beat off to. That was a _little_ bit like fucking in his hotel bed, right?

Maybe not, but regardless, he went to the back room and started digging through the shipment boxes for a jockstrap that would make his junk look really good.

Then his phone rang. The caller ID showed _BROTATO CHIPS_ on the outer screen. What was Mika calling him for?

“What’s happenin’, brother?” Mike greeted, flipping his phone open and tucking it under his ear to keep looking through the jocks.

“Hey, Mike.” Mika sounded serious, but he always sounded like he was about to announce the end of the world.

“Yuh?”

“Uh...Listen, are you busy right now?”

“I’m at the store elbow-deep in jockstraps, so, y’know, the yoosh.”

Mika sighed audibly. He must have been in one of his moods. “Mike, I have some bad news.”

Oh, there actually _was_ bad news this time? But, Mike remembered, Mika thought a lot of things were bad news. “You miss me and wanna hang out?” he joked.

“No, Mike, I’m serious. Um...Our...Dad’s in the hospital. He had a heart attack.”

Suddenly Mike’s stomach felt very cold and tight. “...What do you mean he had a heart attack?”

“You know what I mean.”

“How do you know?”

“I guess he has Mom as his contact at the hospital. They called her earlier.” Several seconds of silence later, Mika must have realized that Mike didn’t know what to say. “They said he’s doing okay. But, uh, you should probably go visit him. Ma and I can’t really get there ‘cause of work, and, yeah…”

“Okay.”

“...You gonna be alright?”

“Yeah, I’m...I’m gonna go visit him, okay? I’ll talk to you later.” He closed his phone and immediately went to the shop window, flipping the OPEN sign around to CLOSED and locking the door. Then he pressed his forehead to the glass, observing the downpour of rain outside. He had skateboarded to the shop from home today. Mick had the car. The hospital was a 45 minute drive away.

***

The yogi pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. Sitting at the reception desk of his studio, he worked diligently to untangle a wood and rope puzzle, despite not having come any closer to solving it all day. It wasn’t like he had anything else to do, though; the weather outside had his bad knee throbbing and so B, the lifesaver, had taken over instructing his classes today.

As much as it killed his joints, the rain was relaxing combined with the gentle world music and incense smell in the studio. Had he not known B would scold him for it, the yogi could have unrolled a mat and had a nap right there on the floor behind the desk.

The buzz of his phone in the back pocket of his pants made him jump and drop his puzzle.

“Yello?” he said, answering without checking the caller ID.

Mike’s voice on the other end sounded immediately frantic, his words coming too quickly. “Hey, Yogi, um, are you...can I ask you for a favor? I’m sorry, I know it’s raining and you probably have shit to do and if you’re busy you can say no and that’s fine—”

“Woah, slow down, Mike. What’s wrong? You sound stressed.”

The yogi could hear the hesitation in his voice. “Can you give me a ride?”

“A _ride_?” the yogi asked incredulously. Where could Mike possibly need to go on a rainy Monday afternoon that required a ride? He knew Mick was out of town and had the car, but one would think Mike had planned accordingly. Of course, Mike Barzetti was never one to plan anything in a way that made sense. “I thought you had a skateboard,” he added.

“I do! I just, uh...listen, I need to go to the hospital.”

 _Oh, lord,_ the yogi thought, _Mick leaves him alone for a day and he needs a doctor._ “Are you hurt?” he asked, fully expecting to hear that he had either broken his leg or gotten something stuck up his ass.

“I’m fine, but...My dad just had a heart attack,” Mike admitted.

“Oh.” Standing, the yogi reached for his cane, his poncho, and his keys. “Where are you now?”

“I’m at the store. I’d take my board, but it’s raining and I don’t wanna get water all over the hospital—”

“I’ll be there in five minutes,” the yogi said. Mike thanked him and hung up.

Before leaving, the yogi entered the room where B was teaching class, nodding his hellos to the spandex-clad cougars. B was at the front of the room, on the floor, demonstrating the mermaid pose, and smiled when he approached. “Hon, I have to go out for a bit,” he murmured to them, kissing the top of their head. “I might not be back for a while.”

“Oh, where are you going?” B asked.

“I have to give Mike a ride somewhere.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah, he’s fine. I’ll bring dinner home.”

B nodded, said they were fine with walking home—the studio was across the street from the Bowens’ apartment—and gave him a quick kiss.

No more than three minutes later, his teal Geo pulled up to the Maczetti’s store, which thankfully was located within the same district as the yoga studio. Mike was already waiting outside under the awning, looking like he regretted not bringing a jacket to work warmer than the hoodie he had pulled over his hat.

“Thanks for doing this for me, dude,” he said as he tried to shut the passenger-side door as fast as possible before any rain could get inside. “Some weather, huh?” He patted his hands on his knees and bounced in his seat for about thirty seconds before he realized that the yogi wasn’t driving until he put his seatbelt on, then made a quiet _oh_ sound and buckled it.

“So,” the yogi said, about ten minutes of silent driving later, “Your dad.”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Mike perked up, having been zoning out looking at the little rivulets of rain snaking paths down his window. “Mika called me and told me, right before I called you.”

“Who’s Mika?”

“My brother.”

The yogi furrowed his brows and shot him a confused smile as he turned onto the highway. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

Mike shrugged. “Well, we only started talking again kinda, like, recently,” he said, sliding the zipper on his hoodie up and down.

“Did you guys have a falling out or something?” He hoped he didn’t sound like he was prying, but there was a lot about Mike that the yogi didn’t know, considering how long he had been friends with him by now. B always talked about him, and was the yogi’s main source of information about Mike’s life, but they, too, only knew and said so much. Now was as good a time as ever to fill in the gaps and learn a little more about him, because how often did just the two of them spend time together like this? Besides, Mike could probably use some conversation to take his mind off of the reason they were together in the first place.

“No, no, we’re cool,” he said. “We just didn’t see each other for a long time.” He appeared to space out again, this time watching the wipers and drumming his fingers on the door handle in time with them.

“...Why’s that?”

“Huh?”

“Why didn’t you see each other?”

“Oh. He went to live with his—uh, our mom when our parents split up.”

“Ah.” The divorce, the yogi _did_ know of; B had told him all about how turbulent Mike’s home life had been when they were children, and that Mike’s father had apparently been a “total fucking turd,” in B’s own colorful words. Fun, then, that he was going to visit him. “So your parents still talk, then?” he asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

“No,” Mike said bluntly.

“Oh. But Mika talks to your dad?”

“Oh, hell no. They never got along,” Mike chuckled stiffly.

“But Mika knew about this before you did?”

“Huh?”

“You said Mika called you and told you he was in the hospital.”

“Yeah,” Mike said, obviously not getting the yogi’s point.

“It’s just kind of weird that he didn’t contact _you_ first, if he doesn’t talk to your mom or your brother.”

Blinking at him, Mike finally seemed to see what he was getting at. “...Well, I mean, I guess he has my mom as his contact at the hospital. And they said he was doing fine,” he added, “So I’m not, like, worried or anything.”

Shrugging in response, the yogi took the exit for the hospital and the rest of the ride was done in silence. He didn’t entirely believe that Mike was as unworried as he claimed he was.

“Uh, you can drop me at the door,” he said. “Thanks again—”

“I’m coming in with you,” the yogi said, pulling into a parking space. “You’re gonna need a ride back home, right?”

“...Right.” Mike reached for the yogi’s cane in the backseat before he got out of the car and then went around to his side, helping him out and handing it to him. The yogi knew he was stalling, by the way he was walking so slowly next to him, so he walked faster, the metal tip of his cane clicking on the pavement, and then on the tile flooring inside the hospital lobby. Mike stopped them in front of a directory sign.

“Okay, so he’s…” he carefully observed the sign, tugging on his puffy beard. “Uh, he’s gonna be...I didn’t get his room number from Mika…He wouldn’t be in the ICU, would he?”

“You should tell the desk you’re visiting,” the yogi suggested, pointing out the reception desk. Nodding, Mike tentatively approached the receptionist, his hands in his pockets.

“Can I help you, sir?” she asked.

“Um, I’m here to visit my dad.”

The yogi had never seen Mike look nervous talking to a stranger before. It was almost cute, he thought. He must not have ever been to a hospital, or maybe they made him anxious.

“Bobby, er, sorry, _Robert_ Barzetti,” he said, when the receptionist asked for the name of the patient. Then she turned to the yogi, asking sweetly if he was also here to visit. He explained that he was a friend of the family, and Mike gave him a curious look. The girl took their names and pointed them in the direction of the elevator to the third floor, where the coronary unit was.

In the elevator, he placed his hand supportively on Mike’s back, receiving a tight-lipped smile in return. Otherwise, he wasn’t sure what to say to him. A sense of dread for an impending awkward situation was beginning to linger over the yogi’s head.

The staff in the coronary unit were cordial and welcoming, at least. To a matronly nurse Mike explained, just as timidly as he had to the receptionist, that he was there to visit his father, and she asked that they please keep their voices quiet and silence their phones for the good of the patients, and then delivered the good news that Mr. Barzetti was recovering just fine as she led them down the hall to his room.

“I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you,” she smiled, opening the door. “Mr. Barzetti, you have some visitors. Just let me or another nurse know if you boys need anything.”

The yogi entered the room behind Mike, who, being slightly taller, obscured his view of the bed until he muttered a small “Hi, Dad,” and stepped out of the way, revealing the fabled Robert “Bobby” Barzetti, a man similar in age to the yogi himself, who looked even more Italian than his son, with an outdated brown mustache and a bad attitude permanently etched into the frown lines on his brick of a face. He was the type of man who would have looked out of place doing anything _except_ coaching and screaming at a team of stressed-out kids, built like a bulldog, and the yogi wondered how the nurses had managed to get him out of a jersey and into a hospital gown.

In short, he didn’t like him. And that was _before_ he opened his mouth.

“Who’s this?” he asked, gesturing to the yogi without acknowledging him.

“Hi, Robert,” the yogi tried, extending a hand that wasn’t accepted but putting on his friendliest smile anyway. “I’m Michael Bowen—”

“I thought you were with that other old fruit,” Bobby ignored him to continue speaking at Mike, who stood stiffly at the end of the bed like he was afraid to move any closer. “Weren’t you married? What, did he get sick of you?”

“I’m still married to Mick,” Mike said, looking in the direction of the bed but avoiding eye contact with his father.

“So who are you, his side fling or something?” Bobby snorted an ugly laugh and nodded at the yogi, amusing himself with his own jokes. “I hear Mike gets around.”

It was a blessing that the yogi was a patient man. His smile hadn’t faltered, as much as Bobby was testing it. “Actually, I’m just a close friend,” he said, “And Mike’s car is in the shop right now, so he needed a ride. But it’s good to meet you, Robert.”

Mike stood by uncomfortably, watching the yogi lie for him. He must have realized Bobby would find some way to berate him for not having a car of his own. It seemed to work, though; he finally acknowledged the yogi as human and shook his hand once he had deemed him worthy of a handshake.

“Bobby,” he said tersely. Then he turned his attention back to his son. “I’m fine, by the way,” he said. “Thanks for asking.”

“That’s...good to hear,” Mike stuttered. “Mika told me that, um, that you were doing good, ‘cause when they called M—Sandra...Mom...I guess she heard y—”

Bobby scowled. “Your mother had to tell you I was in here?”

“Y-yeah, because, um, I guess she’s your emergency contact and...yeah...”

“ _Pfft_ ,” Bobby scoffed. “If you talked to your old man maybe you would’ve known first.”

The yogi tightened his grip on the handle of his cane, squeezing the carved wood just as hard as he was biting his tongue.

“You talk to your mother now?” Bobby went on.

Mike made a gesture somewhere between a nod and a shrug. “A little bit,” he said cautiously.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I guess I just felt like, y’know, we should talk more, since I’m...um...you know...doing stuff. Getting married, and stuff.”

Wincing, the yogi braced himself, realizing what Bobby was about to ask him.

“Was she at your wedding?”

Mike tensed, if it was even possible for him to be tenser than he already was, and hunched his shoulders almost imperceptibly. “She was,” he said. A knot clenched in the yogi’s stomach. He should have lied about that. But he had a feeling Mike was absolutely terrified of lying to his father.

“Let me get this straight, then,” Bobby started, “Your _mother_ was at your wedding, and not me? Tell me she invited herself.”

The yogi knew he was watching a scene that had played out a thousand times between these two. It sickened him to think of how often Bobby must have verbally abused his son like this, with how easily Mike gave in to it, and it was worse to imagine what his father had done to him when bullying with words wasn’t enough to placate him.

“No, sir, we invited her.” Mike’s voice trembled like it was about to break.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Do you not remember living with _me_ your whole life? Did you just forget all about how much I did for your stupid ass? And now suddenly Sandra’s your mother again!”

It felt almost perverse to watch this. The yogi’s natural instinct told him to avert his eyes, leave the room, detach himself from a family quarrel that really wasn’t any of his business.

“You were old enough to remember when she left us, Mike,” he continued, his voice like a mallet hammering Mike into the ground as he hunched and sunk lower with every word. “Don’t act like you weren’t there when she took your fuckin’ useless brother and dumped you on me.”

But that wasn’t the right thing to do. He couldn’t leave Mike alone with this asshole. This _was_ his business, now, the yogi decided. It was always his business when someone he cared about was being treated like a dog, and he cared about Mike more than Bobby ever did.

“What, you think she wants you now? She wants that money you’re making, maybe. Did you tell her what you _do_ , kid? Does your mother know you’re livin’ large being a gold-digging whore?”

Ooh, man, he wanted to punch him. Maybe Mike said nothing because, having been more experienced in the ways of Bobby, he knew that whatever he said would just be thrown back in his face. But a bedridden heart patient couldn’t throw back a punch in the jaw. That probably wasn’t the best solution, though, the yogi thought. He of all people should have known that violence wasn’t the answer.

“Y’know,” Bobby said, pointing a thumb at the yogi, “When that fag you’re mooching off of loses interest maybe you can suck this guy off and get _him_ to pay your bills.”

Okay. Fuck this guy.

Scanning the room, his eyes landed on the other bed, that was empty probably because Bobby would put a roommate into further coronary distress. While he continued tearing into Mike, the yogi walked over to the bed, picked up the pillow, and lugged it at Bobby’s face to shut him up.

“What the fuck?!” Bobby roared, although it was muffled. He flung the pillow across the room, narrowly missing Mike, and then swung his legs off of the bed. “What the fuck was that for, you fat bastard?!”

“You’re just an asshole,” the yogi said plainly, “And I wanted you to shut up.”

Bobby hadn’t looked as tall as he actually was when he was laying in bed. The yogi raised his cane in a defensive stance in front of him as he stood, fully ready to perform a bōjutsu takedown if the lumbering, furious ox of a man came any closer.

Mike looked like _he_ was about to have a coronary. Before Bobby, bare-assed and fuming in his hospital gown, could lunge at the yogi, he scrambled to place himself between the two of them, outstretching his arms to shield as much of the yogi as he could. “Dad!” he yelped, “Stop!”

“What on earth is going on in here?” the nurse from before suddenly appeared in the door, scurrying over to break up the commotion. “Mr. Barzetti, you cannot be out of bed right now,” she said, ushering Bobby back to his bed.

“Then get this fuckin’ asshole out of my room!” he bellowed, shoving her away.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she said to the yogi. “We cannot have this much noise—”

“Alright, we’re leaving.” With an arm around Mike, who was frozen in place in the middle of the room, the yogi pulled him along, turning him away from Bobby, who still screamed insults as they rushed out the door.

The last thing they heard from him before the it slammed shut was “Some people you call your friends, Mike!”

Hiding his face in his hood from the staring nurses, Mike let the yogi walk him out of the coronary unit and back to the elevator, wanting to run much faster than the yogi’s brisk limp.

“So that’s your father, huh?” the yogi sighed heavily as they stepped into the elevator. “Yeesh. B told me he was a dick, but _fuck_.”

Mike shrugged, staring at his reflection in the mirrored ceiling. “Yeah, that’s him.”

The yogi snorted. “Asshole has a heart attack and the first thing he does is start grilling you! No ‘Hey, kiddo, your old man’s glad to see you,’ huh? Did he even say _hello_?”

Mike shrugged again. The elevator dinged and they stepped back out into the lobby.

“Did he always talk to you like that?”

“That was actually better than usual,” Mike said, forcing a laugh.

The yogi grabbed a complimentary cookie from a little platter that was set up near the sliding doors to the parking lot, needing the sugar. “I can’t believe you put up with that shit for so long. Guy’s lucky I had that pillow to shut him up or else I woulda put his ass in the ICU.”

That time, Mike’s laugh sounded more genuine. The yogi’s rant continued on the way out to the car. Luckily, the rain had stopped since they had been inside, so their walking pace slowed, but Mike found himself trailing slightly behind. His feet felt heavy and he watched the soles of his shoes scrape on the damp pavement while he listened to the yogi continue his tirade, so fired up that his New York accent was coming out.

“And then he shoved the nurse outta the way! The woman’s there to keep his rotten old bastard heart pumping and he’s treating _her_ like a dog, too! You know what that guy is, Mike? He’s a fucking bully. A bitter, ugly old prick with nothing going for him so he wastes his life making everyone around him miserable so _he_ feels better about himself. Guys like him are a dime a dozen, kid, trust me. They peak in senior year and their brains never graduate.”

Opening the driver’s side door, he practically threw his cane into the backseat of the car, fantasizing that Bobby’s skull was back there. He grunted as he got in and grabbed his seatbelt. “Y’know, I always thought you were a good guy, but after meeting that noodledicked meathead I think you turned out _great_ —” Pivoting to buckle it, he stopped just short of clicking it into place, going quiet to stare curiously at Mike. He was curled up in the passenger’s seat, leaning his compact body against the door, one arm crossed over himself and the other raising a hand to hide his face. The yogi would have asked if he felt sick and brought him back inside if his shoulders hadn’t then trembled with a barely contained sob. He was _crying_? Over that asshole?

Well, the yogi thought, this probably _was_ a pretty rough day for him. Personally, if Bobby were his own father, he would have been disappointed to hear that he had survived the heart attack, and pissed on his grave and thrown a party if he hadn’t. But Mike’s feelings about him were obviously a little more complex. It was rational and valid to cry over your dad being in the hospital, he supposed, even if your dad was an abusive piece of shit. Or maybe his dad being an abusive piece of shit was more of the motivation.

Unfortunately, the yogi had no idea how to console him. Crying wasn’t exactly his strong suit. Sure, B cried on nearly a daily basis, but that was always over something like a broken nail or how cows had to die to become hamburgers. Parental abuse couldn’t be treated with a hug.

But it would probably help anyway, right? Tentatively, he tapped Mike on the shoulder before he had a chance to curl so tightly in on himself that he pulled a muscle. That got his attention, and as he peeked out from behind his fingers, the look of lost, confused, lonely anguish in his bloodshot eyes made the yogi want to hug him regardless of whether it would do any good. He spread his arms as an invitation and Mike didn’t hesitate to accept, practically crawling over the center console into his embrace and fully breaking down, his hat being knocked off of his head and his squeaky sobs being muffled in the yogi’s linen shirt.

The angle was awkward, in fact the whole thing was awkward—this was a side of Mike he had never seen before and didn’t know existed, and he could assume that Mike wanted it that way, judging by how he seemed to be trying to shrink himself and hide his tears from him, although they were difficult to conceal when they were being poured directly into a growing wet spot on his chest. After what had just gone down in that hospital room, he felt like he understood a _lot_ about why Mike was so...much of the way he was. And he understood why Mick was so endeared to the kid...this felt like holding a kicked puppy, his hands even moving instinctively to pet circles on his back, which helped; Mike’s breathing steadied and the sniffling petered out.

“You okay?” asked the yogi, unsure of what to say. This was usually the part when B fanned their face and announced that they were good, but Mike probably wasn’t going to do that.

Instead he nodded silently, still burying his face in his shirt.

“I guess I should take you home, then,” the yogi continued. “You’re probably tired...” He let Mike out of his arms so that he could sit up. He nodded again, stroking his palms up and down his biceps like he was cold, but still said nothing, avoiding eye contact.

Maybe it was a bad idea to send him home in such a state. Mick wouldn’t be there to take care of him. Vaguely, the yogi judged himself for thinking of him in such a coddling manner, but, fuck, if anybody in the world could use a little bit of coddling, it was Mike Barzetti.

“Hey,” he said, reaching over to squeeze Mike’s shoulder, “How about you come spend tonight with B and I instead?”

Finally, he looked at him. “Well,” he mumbled, his voice dry and croaky and full of phlegm, “I have to, like, go take care of Dahlia ‘n stuff…”

“We’ll stop by your house, and you can get your things,” the yogi replied. “And you can bring the dog,” he reluctantly added.

A meek smile found its way back onto Mike’s face as he wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Okay.”

***

When they arrived at the Bowens’ apartment, the yogi fumbling with his keys and kicking the door open because his arms were full of pizza, B came to the living room in tie-dyed harem pants and fully topless, in the middle of brushing the tease out of their hair. “Hi Michael,” they greeted, “Is Mike oka—Oh my god, Mike!”

Letting go of their brush, which just stuck in place in their hair and dangled at the side of their head, they yanked Mike into the apartment the second he stepped in behind the yogi.

“Are you okay?!” B wailed, pulling his face to their chest in a hug. “Michael told me what happened. Oh my god.”

“‘M’okay,” he tried to answer, his cheeks squished up against B’s bare chest and starting to turn red.

“What about the asshole?”

“He’s okay, too.”

“Gross.”

Mike snorted, and B peeled him away from their tits to squish the sides of his face in their hands, which smelled of nail polish remover. “He’sh shupposhed to be out of the hoshpital in a few daysh,” he said.

Wrinkling their nose, B made a sound of disgust. “Well, I’m glad _you’re_ okay. Was he, like, happy to see you, at least?”

The yogi barked a sardonic laugh from across the room before Mike had a chance to answer. “Happy to be a big ugly prick, more like,” he grunted, setting the pizza boxes down on the kitchen table, leaning his cane against it, and plopping himself down into one of the chairs. He sighed and massaged his bad knee. “He’s even worse than you said he was, hon.”

“Isn’t he?!” B replied, turning to look at him but still keeping their hands protectively braced around Mike, as if Bobby could burst through the wall like the Kool-Aid man at any moment to terrorize him. “Hi, Dahlia, baby,” they cooed at the little puppy when she popped her head up out of the backpack Mike carried her in.

Stubb, who had detected Dahlia’s presence in the apartment, announced her annoyance with a _boof_ and came toddling into the kitchen, hoisting her forelegs onto the yogi’s thighs and trying unsuccessfully to jump up onto his lap. “He didn’t even say hello to Mike when we came in,” he said as he caught her paws with an _oof_. “And then he just started tearing into him. Fuckin’ asshole, that guy. Thinks he’s a drill sergeant or something.”

“And then Yogi threw a pillow at him,” Mike added plainly, taking Dahlia out of his backpack to cradle her in his arms and tickle her round belly.

“Oh, my god. You did _not_ ,” B’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. They made grabby hands at the puppy, taking her from Mike and nuzzling noses with her while they shot the yogi an incredulous look.

“Sure did,” the yogi nodded sagely.

“ _Michael!_ ” B tried to sound shocked and appalled, but their impish grin betrayed them.

Finally, Mike cracked a genuine smile and snorted a tiny laugh, which the yogi was glad to see. “Hey, do you mind if I take a shower?” he asked, lifting his hat to scratch the back of his head.

“Of course not,” the yogi replied.

“We’ll try to save you some pizza, but no promises,” B smiled.

***

“Hey, babe,” Mick answered his phone.

“Hi,” Mike greeted back.

“I hear water running. You about to get in the shower?”

“Uhuh.”

“I expect pictures on my desk by tomorrow morning.”

“Hah, you know it won’t take me that long.”

“You alright, though? You sound tired.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just had kind of a long day.”

“Busy at the shop?”

“Nah, it was pretty slow and rainy, actually...it’s kinda boring by myself.”

“Heh, that’s how it was before I had you. You’re at home now, yeah?”

“I’m, uh, at B and Yogi’s place, actually.”

“Really? Why?”

“Well, my, uh, my dad was in the hospital today ‘cause he had a heart attack—”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah...he’s okay, though.”

“Heh, that’s a bummer.”

“B said the same thing. But, like, Yogi gave me a ride to go see him, so I came back to their place for the night.”

“Where’s the baby?”

“I brought her over with me.”

“Pfft. I’m surprised Michael was cool with that. Are you _really_ okay?”

“...Well, I am now. Seeing him...it sucked.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“He just...y’know. Said a lot of shit. And, like, I know it shouldn’t bother me anymore, but it does.”

“And that’s okay.”

“Yeah. I’m okay. I cried on Yogi in the parking lot, though.”

“Aw, babe!”

“It’s kinda funny now, actually. I left a big wet spot on his shirt. He smells like plants.”

“I believe that’s the patchouli he rolls in every morning after his dust bath. But, listen, babe, we’re going out for tacos as _soon_ as I get home.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause I love you, and I love tacos, and I’m bored as shit in this hotel and there’s no good food. But mostly because I love you.”

“Heh, that’s gay.”

“Full homo. I’m gonna be home tomorrow night, kinda late.”

“I’ll be waiting for you in my extra special lingerie.”

“Ooh, la la! Alright, Mike, I’ll let you get in the shower. I love you. Send me pictures. Eat some dinner.”

“Love you, Mick.”

***

Dahlia stole the crusty remnants of Mike’s sixth piece of pizza from the paper plate that sat on the floor next to the Bowens’ nest of mattress and blankets, disregarding the barrier of curtains intended to keep dogs out of the sleeping area of the apartment. B let her take it; they were preoccupied with Mike’s head in their lap, his eyes squeezed shut as they took a pair of tweezers to his unruly eyebrows.

“Don’t scrunch your face up like that,” they directed, “I can’t get your unibrow hairs.”

“I didn’t know I had a— _ouch_ —unibrow,” Mike said. His voice was scratchy with post-pizza drowsiness.

“Everyone has a unibrow. And I love to pluck them.” B’s tongue was stuck out in deep concentration and they looked upon Mike’s face as if it was a canvas. “We gotta get your brows lookin’ hot.”

“Hot eyebrows?”

“Yeah, dude. Mick’s home tomorrow, right? We need to get you at maximum fuckability.”

“You gonna comb out my butt hairs, too?”

Drawing the curtain back, the yogi stepped over the two to settle himself into bed, shrouded in a huge, flowy robe, tie-dyed in earth tones. “Please don’t do that in the bed,” he said. Nestling himself under the covers, he discarded the robe and was completely nude aside from his glasses.

“Dude, Yogi, you sleep naked?”

“Mike, you know I sleep naked.”

Mike giggled. “Huhuhuh, yeah. But you’re, like, _super_ naked.” He reached over to pat him on the roundest part of his belly as the yogi reclined with a book, titled something metaphysical that Mike had never heard of. “It’s a good look for you.”

The yogi grunted affirmatively. On the other side of the curtain, Stubb also grunted, and B pulled it back to reveal the old dog rolling around on the floor, being terrorized by Dahlia, who was trying to sit on top of her while she ate her pizza crust. “We’re never going to get to sleep with those dogs,” the yogi said, turning a page.

“Dahlia, baby, come here,” B called. She lost interest in her crust, leaving it sitting on top of Stubb, and toddled over to the bed, where B scooped her up to blow a raspberry on her side and deposited her on Mike’s chest.

“Gross,” he laughed, “She got Stubb’s stink on her.”

“Is it okay if Dahlia sleeps with us?” B asked, noticing the way the yogi side-eyed her, sweetly stroking his shoulder and batting their lashes at him.

“Just this one time,” the yogi said, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth blowing the cover on his feigned annoyance.

“Thanks, man,” Mike said. Yawning, he scooted out of B’s lap and wedged himself tightly between the Bowens’ bodies, wonderfully snug and soaking up their body heat under three layers of blankets. “Seriously, I owe both of you. Thanks.”

With the yogi’s steady breathing to his right, B petting his hair from his left, and Dahlia curled up under his chin, Mike was out cold in minutes. He didn’t dream about his father.


End file.
